


on your collarbone

by greenbucket



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Singing, nachos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbucket/pseuds/greenbucket
Summary: Ford presses call. If neither of them can pick up then neither of them can pick up and Ford is sure she’ll be able to find a very rational, safe reason for that – they’re in a hospital after all, so any further shenanigans should be covered.“Oh, fuck, hey Ford,” greets Sharon’s voice after what Ford estimates to be the second to last dialling tone before voicemail. “We’re just realising we kinda left you hanging on the text front, didn’t we?”“Sorry!” adds Shruti in the background. “Though in our defence, you didn’t text us back.”





	on your collarbone

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Jordan Klassen’s song of the same name.

**Sweetie** **♥♥♥♥♥♥♥**  
_k so i dn’t mean 2 alarm u but i’m in the hspital rn_  
_this is sharon txting 4 shruti btw_  
_tho she is conscious & did tell me what 2 say eg. it’s all nbd dw_

Ford reads over the words again, trying to find some reassurance in that if Sharon isn’t alarmed then it’s probably not _that_ that serious. Her stomach still carries on twisting itself in knots; they’d hung out after morning practice and Shruti hadn’t had a game today, so Ford’s imaginings of what might have happened aren’t even constrained solely to the potential horrors of rugby. Awesome!

At least at some point Shruti had been conscious, and able to dictate messages to Sharon. She reads over the texts for the third – or eighth – time. Like? ‘ _dn’t mean 2 alarm u’_ and _‘it’s all nbd dw’_? Nailed it, honey. No alarm or worrying at all.

Ford hates the lack of information, the not being able to do anything about whatever’s gone on. Put a disaster right in front of her and Ford knows she can keep her cool through anything, from broken nails to broken relationships to broken gas pipes – tell her that something’s gone to shit two streets over, though? She’s still going to go help but she’s going to be panicking about the details every step of the way.

Worse, tell her that something went to shit three hours ago, and it involved her girlfriend and several unknown variables and Ford was too busy managing theatre kids to help at all.

It’s quiet backstage now, at least, the cast and crew almost entirely moved out to celebrate another smooth-running show. Ford had meant to do one last check that everything was in place, so tomorrow can run just as smoothly, before joining them. And then she’d checked her phone.

Shruti-via-Sharon’s texts were towards the end (or rather the start) of the long list of notifications her phone presented her with when she checked it after the show – they’re dated three hours earlier, and there’s been no update from Shruti or Sharon since. Which is fine. It’s probably not a big deal, like they’re probably wrapped up with sorting hospital stuff and too busy to text.

Still. Ford presses call. If neither of them can pick up then neither of them can pick up and Ford is sure she’ll be able to find a very rational, safe reason for that – they’re in a hospital after all, so any further shenanigans should be covered.

“Oh, fuck, hey Ford,” greets Sharon’s voice after what Ford estimates to be the second to last dialling tone before voicemail. “We’re just realising we kinda left you hanging on the text front, didn’t we?”

“Sorry!” adds Shruti in the background. “Though in our defence, you didn’t text _us_ back.”

That’s some nonsense since Shruti knows Ford was working the show but hearing her make a dumb joke takes the sharpest off the edge of Ford’s worry. She shuts her eyes and lets her breath go in a rush.

“You did, and I did, but y’know what they say. Treat them mean, keep them keen,” she replies, glancing around the theatre and deciding she can forgo double checking clean up just this once. “Okay, so what’s going on? Which hospital are you guys at?”

Sharon tells her that Shruti’s been diagnosed with a fairly broken collarbone, which Shruti describes as ‘like, not the kind where the bone rips out the skin? But it is pretty cracked, dude’; Sharon confirms this as an accurate description and goes on to explain that despite this, Shruti’s been discharged. And so they’re currently ‘chilling in the communal space of Shruti’s dorm block’ while ‘eating these _super_ stale nacho chips’ and ‘listening to this Canadian radio station. Can you believe we managed to get that here?’

“You should come!” says Shruti in the background.

“Please come,” says Sharon. “They maybe gave her some pain meds.” And then she hangs up, like that should be an explanation and incentive in itself.

Ford, for what it’s worth, had started making her way over to Shruti’s dorm as soon as Sharon had said that’s where they were so it’s no real inconvenience. That neither of them did explain exactly how Shruti has ended up with a broken collar bone does get her suspicions going, though.

Ford locks her phone where it has still been flashing the call ended sign, and then pushes the door open to Shruti’s block. It’s supposed to be locked (and Ford totally knows the code even though she shouldn’t) but it’s always propped open with some item or another. Today: two taped-together milk bottles, decorated by a plain blue post-it note.

The couches in the communal area are physically perfect, because this is Samwell, but the bone-deep knowledge of the exploits that must have taken place on them gives them the repellent aura of the green couch at the Haus. Ford is a little horrified to see how comfortably Shruti and Sharon are lounging on them, bag of nacho chips between them, feet up and shoeless on the very sticky coffee table.

Although in Shruti’s case, she doesn’t look all that comfortable at all. Her whole body is stiff holding one position (presumably the most comfortable or least painful one) and her arm that isn’t rooting around in the chip bag is in a sling. Ford feels simultaneously awful for her – because ouch, and because no rugby – and deeply, deeply glad that otherwise she looks okay. If a bit doped up on pain killers, and listening to Canadian radio.

“Do you like the door prop-er?” Sharon asks as Ford comes in. “I made it myself, the old one was getting tatty.”

“Love the door prop-er,” Ford tells Sharon, reminding herself firmly that she’s sat on the green couch innumerable times and settling in beside Shruti. “Very modern art, or whatever.”

Shruti closes the small distance to kiss Ford hello on the cheek and says proudly, “I decorated it.”

“That really elevated it to masterpiece status, babe,” Ford says, only slightly joking. It did add character to the piece. “Now you guys can cut the crap and tell me what got us into this situation.”

Shruti and Sharon look at each other and each grab a handful of chewy-sounding nachos to eat instead of saying anything. That’s almost answer enough, except Ford is still feeling a little wound up from the legit anxiety even as it fades to just worry, and still pretty wound up from the fact that even if it will be funny in a few years right now (and for the next while) Shruti’s got a broken collarbone.

“Was Edgar there?” she asks.

Shruti and Sharon chew louder.

“Okay, so Edgar was there.” And then Ford waits. Huh. The Canadian radio station _is_ very clear despite distance.

“Okay, so don’t get mad,” says Shruti after two minutes of more chewy nachos and sharing looks with Sharon while Ford tries to stay mad instead of just falling into relief, “but I was climbing this tree by the Pond–”

“Oh my God,” says Ford. She really wants to stay mad, but _oh my God_.

“In her defence, it was _super_ aesthetic,” says Sharon.

Shruti confirms, “It really was.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” says Ford.

Shruti carries on, “Like, the sun was setting, and it matched my whole outfit, and the leaves are all orange still but fallen-off enough and stuff that you could see the sunset really well? It was so cool. But then I couldn’t figure out how to get down again.”

“Edgar did offer to carry her,” Sharon interjects.

“That’s true, he did,” Shruti agrees. “But I thought I had a route down, man. Only I didn’t have a route and I ended up falling out of the tree. Next thing I know I’m lying in the grass, super pissed off and embarrassed and with one less intact collar bone than before.”

Despite herself, Ford laughs. “Sorry, sorry,” she says immediately after, “I was actually so worried when you texted and I’m still like _holy shit_ , but it’s just the idea of you all grumpy. Just lying there on the grass like, what just happened?”

Sharon says, “That was pretty much how she was. And the first thing she said was about how she’d just fucked up her rugby season.”

“Jock,” says Ford, fond.

“Okay, okay, thanks for the sympathy and the worry, guys,” Shruti grumbles. “ _Anyway_. Collarbone was obviously screwed so I got carted off. They said my head seemed okay, plus no one remembers seeing me hit it on the way down, so I was good to go. And now here I am, getting laughed at.” Shruti ruins the grumpy act then by laughing at herself, cut short when it jostles her collarbone. “I can’t believe I fell out of a _tree_.”

“Typical Shruti,” Sharon sighs. “At least you lived to tell the tale.”

Sounding embarrassed, Shruti says, “I don’t know if I want to. I feel kinda stupid about it in hindsight, especially now I can’t play when I’m the fucking captain.” Her voice goes small as she adds, “Coach was so mad.”

Sharon looks awkward then ruffles Shruti’s hair bracingly, while Ford, feeling bad about the joking, takes her good hand and squeezes. Shruti blinks a lot until her eyes look less teary and squeezes Ford’s hand back.

“Oh, at some point during that,” says Sharon, to distract from the harsh consequences of climbing into a tree for the aesthetic, “Edgar fucked off to see his boyfriend.”

Shruti sniffs and wipes her eyes, probably aiming for surreptitious but she hasn’t let go of Ford’s hand. They end up wiping Shruti’s eyes together, which is clumsy and stupid and weirdly intimate. “Didn’t he say he had a study group to get to?” she asks.

“ _Yeah_ ,” says Sharon, in tones of deepest _duh_ , “the one his boyfriend is also in.”

“Ah,” says Shruti. And then, “That asshole, leaving me in my hour of need to study and make out with his boyfriend. Like, really?”

“Can’t ever trust a volleyball player,” Sharon agrees wisely.

“You said he offered to carry you out the tree,” Ford reminds them, because Edgar is the exact kind of chaotic that she _knows_ he somehow got them into this mess without anyone having to say anything, but he’s a nice dude.

“He’s a volleyball player, Ford,” says Sharon like this explains everything.

Shruti lets go of Ford’s hand this time as she tries to make a volleyball pass motion one handed, as if to demonstrate the untrustworthiness. She interrupts herself by using that hand to cover her mouth yawning halfway through.

“Ready for bed?” Ford asks. It’s super late, already had been on the way to it by the time Ford had checked her phone, and she’s edging towards exhausted herself. And as chatty as she’s been, she sees Sharon shoot her a grateful look from the corner of her eye at the suggestion of breaking it up.

Shruti groans and says, “I don’t want to go to bed, the doctor said I have to have an ice pack and gather pillows to support the fracture and stuff if I’m feeling any pain. Which I am.” She looks pointedly at Ford and Sharon and their two functioning collar bones each.

“Really,” says Sharon, slightly out of breath in Shruti’s room ten minutes later, “it’s Edgar who should be collecting and positioning all these fucking cushions. He’s the one that suggested Shruti climb the tree.”

Ford doesn’t shout _I knew it_ , but it’s a close thing.

“God,” says Shruti when they’ve carefully positioned pillows and cushions and helped her lie propped up against them, “that was so much effort.” She yawns widely.

Sharon, seemingly too tired for a snarky comment, just pats Shruti’s leg and says she’ll text when she gets safely to hers. “Don’t fall out of the bed in the night, Shruti,” she calls (snarkily) as the door shuts behind her.

Ford switches on Shruti’s bedside lamp, switches off the main light, kicks off her shoes and very, very carefully curls up next to Shruti on her teeny bed. Shruti’s eyes are shut and her face looks strained now it’s just the two of them with no need for show, even as sleepily out of it as she is. Her chin wobbles a little on an exhale.

Ford takes her good hand again. “You should get some sleep,” she says. “Speeds up healing.”

“But it’s _hard_. Everything hurts and feels way detached at the same time.”

“Count some sheep,” Ford suggests, shifting so she can stroke back Shruti’s hair from her face. The movement nearly tips her off the side of the bed, but she manages.

“I should’ve stayed off campus this year,” says Shruti, eyes still shut. She sounds sleepy and grumpy and ready for a good whine. “I remember when I had a double bed. Woulda made this whole thing a dream.”

God, Ford loves her, even when she’s whining. The texts had said not to worry, but she’s still just so _relieved_. “A dream except for the whole still having a broken collarbone thing,” she points out all the same.

“Nope,” says Shruti, determined. “Would’ve all been easier. I’m not kidding. I would be able to sleep in my old double with you _and_ a broken bone. This timing sucks ass and everything sucks ass and I hate it.”

“Come on, cranky baby. You’ll feel better in the morning,” says Ford, parting and moulding Shruti’s swoopy bangs into two lopsided devil horns. Shruti, blissfully unaware of that detail, lets some of the cranky go and hums contentedly at the touch. “I’ll sing you a lullaby, how about that?”

Shruti forces her eyes open with what looks like some effort and, crankiness gone, bestows Ford with an unfocused, dopy smile. “You’d really do that? That’s so nice of you. Singing me to sleep when I’m like, an invalid and stuff.”

She knocks Ford’s leg with her foot affectionately, probably since her upper body is kind of out of action, and Ford nudges her gently back. “Yep, I’m the best girlfriend ever.”

“You know it,” Shruti agrees and her eyes slip shut again. They stay shut even when a moment later her forehead wrinkles come back in force and she says, alarmed, “Wait, no, stop. No singing, babe. Your singing can, uh, leave something to be desired?”

Ford knows this. “What do you mean?” she asks, playing dumb.

“You can’t sing for shit.”

“Too late.” Ford clears her throat and starts to sing, the first lullaby that comes into her head. Her voice wavers badly throughout and goes sharp on every high bit, croaky on every low, and that’s only like, three lines in.

“Nooo,” Shruti whines. “Stop. You’re going to make my collarbone worse.”

Ford laughs despite herself again and says, “I don’t think my bad singing can make a broken bone worse, sweetie.”

“ _Not_ to be rude,” starts Shruti, which in itself promises that she’s about to be rude, “but then you’re super underestimating how bad it is. Let me do it.”

“What, you’re going to sing yourself to sleep?”

Shruti squints opens one eye to give Ford a withering look, then starts to sing, picking up where Ford had left off. Ford sings a line or two alongside, just to fuck with her, before letting Shruti sing by herself. She’s good at singing, even halfway asleep, and Ford carries on playing with Shruti’s hair as she listens and lets herself be soothed.

It’s been a kind of horrible evening at the core of it, because Shruti got injured and Ford can still feel the worried tension all in her own back and shoulders, but Ford is thankful at least that it wasn’t worse and that the outlook looks good. And this bit is nice – the absurdity of climbing a tree for the aesthetic softening it all a little, and the unplanned night with Shruti, and getting to have this kinda peaceful moment with her.

“Hey,” Shruti interrupts herself after a solo verse or two. “I didn’t say stop.”

Ford pauses where she’s been stroking back Shruti’s hair, messing with the devil horns. “The singing? I mean, you kinda did?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean like, _actually stop_.” Shruti explains. She tries to sit up fully and then gasps, her face screwing up in pain, when it fucks with her shoulder.

Ford’s hands hover over her, unsure what do to and knowing there’s not really anything to do and not wanting to move in case the mattress moving with her makes it worse. “You good?” she asks, which is a completely lacking question.

“Yup,” Shruti replies, a moment late and little breathless. She lies back down carefully. “Ugh, this sucks _ass_.”

“How about next time you feel like climbing into a tree for the aesthetic without figuring out how to come down, just think _what would my amazing girlfriend Ford do_? and don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what my amazing girlfriend Ford would do? Sound advice.”

Ford carefully pulls the blankets up and out from where they’ve already got bunched under them both to cover Shruti more snugly and says, “Shut it, smartass.”

It’s not particularly comfortable, perched on the awkward left-over mattress space (so that Shruti is comfortable and won’t get jostled) with no blankets (so that Shruti is warm with her icepacks), but Ford starts mentally settling in for the night. She can already tell she won’t be able to sleep if she goes back to her own bed, worrying that Shruti will somehow fuck her collarbone up worse or get dehydrated or something.

Shruti tugs Ford closer, close enough that they’re almost snuggling like there’s been no broken bone and hospital visit and months of recovery ahead. It’s ruined a bit by the sling and the ice packs, and the fact they’re having to semi-sit up with a small mountain of pillows, but it’s nice all the same.

Ford slowly moves to rest her head against Shruti’s good shoulder, testing the water as she goes to make sure she’s not causing any hurt. When there’s no screams of agony or bone cracking, Ford breathes out. She can feel the warmth of Shruti’s skin through the soft overwashed material of her pyjama top and smell the familiar smell of her washing powder, and she wills the tension of the day to seep away. It’s easier, with Shruti there, just as it always is.

“Where’d my lullaby go?” Shruti asks after a few minutes of quiet. Her voice is going husky, like she’s tipping into three quarters of the way asleep instead of the half she’s been for the last hour. “You’re tone deaf as hell, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing you sing.”

Something glows warm in Ford’s chest, pushing the last of the slowly easing tension out. “Positive? No take backs?”

Shruti tilts her head over so it’s a reassuring weight resting on top of Ford’s. “Singing doesn’t need to be good or whatever, it’s just needs to be singing. That’s the point. Come on, I’ll start us off from the top, you join in.” Shruti starts the lullaby over, muffled from where her cheek is smooshed against Ford’s head.

Ford has half a mind to tell her to move because that position can’t be good for a healing collarbone, but Shruti’s an athlete, has had a zillion injuries over the years; she can make her own judgements on how to handle it. Besides, maybe it’s stupid to get so worked up when a broken collarbone is not the biggest of big deals, but Ford likes the comforting weight of Shruti against her.

She turns out the bedside light and waits until Shruti reaches the second verse before joining in – not _good singing_ , not a melodic addition by any means, but it doesn’t need to be. As Shruti’s singing becomes more mumbling interspersed with snores than anything, Ford gives in and lets her own tired eyes drift shut.


End file.
